Mango Kisses (18 page)

‘What makes you think Tiffany needs lessons?’ he asked.

‘Everyone can benefit from Fiorella’s course,’ interrupted Andrew. ‘No matter how good you think you are at it. It’s self awareness as much as anything. She uses relaxation and breathing techniques from yoga.’

‘Maybe I do need lessons,’ said Tiffany in an overly loud voice. Both surfers snapped to attention and began offering to help her practice. Tiffany grinned. ‘I might take you up on that offer one day.’

Marianne hooted and clinked her glass against Tiffany’s. Andrew laughed but Miles didn’t. The way she’d spoken sounded to him as though she really did feel inadequate. If anyone had contributed to that feeling it was Miles. If anyone need not feel inadequate it was Tiffany. And if anyone was qualified to give her extra, private, mutual practice he was.

The microphone popped and buzzed and Round Four began with Jeff asking who owned the yellow Torana with its lights on. Bianca from the orchard out of town leapt up and claimed a point for its being hers.

At the end of the night, amidst cheers and groans, the team came in second by two points. The surfers voted to stay on in the bar. Marianne suggested a moonlit walk on the beach and looked meaningfully at Andrew who hesitated but agreed. If he was interested in Marianne, he’d hit on exactly the right way to fire her up. Not many men had Andrew’s cool in the face of such a blatant invitation.

Why couldn’t she do the same with Miles? What was preventing her from taking his hand and suggesting a moonlit stroll? She’d sat next to him all evening, thighs and knees inches away from touching, arms brushing accidentally, exchanging smiles, laughing. They were friends, she wasn’t working at the moment, she desperately wanted to. Why not?

But why didn’t he?

Miles declined more drinking with the surfers and the walk on the beach with Marianne and Andrew, although it was obvious that invitation was meant to be refused.

‘Coming Tiff?’ asked Marianne.

Tiffany glanced at Miles who was discussing the dive arrangements for the morning with Andrew.

‘I need to talk to Miles,’ she said.

‘The letters?’ mouthed Marianne.

Tiffany nodded. Plus other things, which excessive intake of beer had made seem achievable, necessary and urgent, and which Marianne appeared unaware of, now that her attention was diverted by Andrew’s unresponsiveness.

‘Come on let’s go,’ Marianne cried grabbing Andrew’s hand.

‘Aren’t you going with them?’ asked Miles.

‘No. Aren’t you?’

‘No,’ he said. ‘I’m going home.’

‘I’d like to talk to you,’ Tiffany said quickly because even with alcoholic courage her nerve was likely to fail her unless she acted fast.

Miles said simply, ‘Come home with me,’ without asking what about, which was lucky because Tiffany wasn’t precisely clear what she wanted to say to him.

There were lots of things, of course, to do with his inheritance but this wasn’t the time. She wanted to know about the letters but it wasn’t even that. A far more personal topic swirled in her mind and it had something to do with a hollow sense of never seeing him again after the weekend and perhaps never having the opportunity to say whatever it was...to tell him...ask him...something. Maybe she just wanted to be near him.

Tiffany followed Miles out into the warm night. From the pub to his house was only a block but the darkness closed in quickly. The roar of the surf crashing on to the rocks of the headland increased dramatically as they left the noise of the pub behind.

Her eyes adjusted slowly to the blackness as she crossed the road and a dog yapped from the last of the houses opposite.

‘I’m leaving soon,’ said Tiffany into the dark. She hoped she was walking in a straight line, she could hardly see the ground and the fresh air acted strangely like a narcotic. Miles didn’t comment and she felt compelled to keep talking. ‘I’ve finished with the papers. There’s more to do but I can work on that from the office and email you.’

‘When?’ asked Miles.

‘When am I leaving?’

He stopped. They’d reached his driveway. He put his hand in his pocket and pulled out keys. A light shone over his front door sending enough illumination for Tiffany to see the expression on his face as he selected the right key. Sad— he looked sad.

‘What was in the letters, Miles?’

‘Is that what you want to talk about?’

The harshness startled her. His eyes glittered with anger and he spun away and strode across to thrust the key in the lock. Tiffany hesitated but he’d left the door swinging open so she took that as an invitation to follow, or at least as a sign he didn’t want her to leave.

She almost tiptoed in, keeping one hand against the wall to steady herself. He hadn’t turned on any lights but she could see his dark outline outside on the verandah. A half moon shone silver through the open windows. The letters were pale on the table, strewn in careless drifts. He’d read about half, she guessed. A couple of bundles lay intact but it was too dark to read dates.

Reading them must have been like wading into a quagmire, going deeper and deeper, being sucked down so that his breath was crushed from his body. Suffocating.

Tiffany left her bag on a chair and went to stand beside him, staring out at the faint glimmer of foam on the breakers and the strand of moonlight slanting across the inky sea. Soft wind, salt laden and cool, played amongst the trees with a slight rustling of leaves and stirring of branches, and touched her cheek.

‘Would you like a drink?’ he asked.

‘I think I’ve had enough.’ A belch rose up from the depths. She gripped the railing. ‘I don’t normally drink beer.’ Her stomach stretched bloated and fat. The gas subsided.

‘I was thinking more along the lines of coffee.’

‘Oh.’ Tiffany giggled and the burp took advantage and erupted along with the laugh. ‘Pardon me.’ She leaned weakly against the railing with her hands clasped over her mouth to stifle the giggles and any more wayward belches.

Miles turned his head and she could tell he was studying her. ‘You seem to like a drink, don’t you?’

‘No I don’t.’

‘I thought I was hiring a sober, competent professional.’

Tiffany gasped at the sheer, monstrous, unfairness of the accusation. He thought she was a drunk. He thought she was an incompetent, and unprofessional to boot. Her face was on fire, cheeks throbbing with the heat of inflamed blood and humiliation.

She pushed herself away from the railing, swayed momentarily and said in as dignified a voice as she could muster, ‘I’ll be leaving now, Mr Frobisher. Good night.’

‘Didn’t you want to talk to me about something?’

‘I’ve changed my mind.’ She stepped into the comparative blackness of the living room. ‘Now’s not the right time.’

There wouldn’t ever be a right time for what she had absurdly and mistakenly and stupidly thought she could say to him. She couldn’t ever tell him he was her fantasy man. It was completely ludicrous; he’d laugh at her and rightly so.

A small table had moved itself into her path and she bumped her knee painfully on a sharp corner. Something fell to the floor with a clunk. Miles hissed in exasperation behind her. A light came on suddenly and Tiffany covered her eyes, even though it was a standing lamp emitting subdued light.

‘Take your hands away from your face before you move,’ he said. ‘In case you trash something else.’

Tiffany spun around. ‘I haven’t wrecked anything.’ She blinked rapidly in the sudden glare.

Miles replaced a little carved stone statue of some ancient god on the table. ‘It’s only a matter of time,’ he said.

She snatched up her bag and headed for the door.

‘Are you able to get home?’ he asked.

‘I’ll have a bruise on my knee but I can walk.’

‘I didn’t mean that.’

‘You mean am I sober enough?’ she demanded.

He didn’t reply, just stood and stared at her until she couldn’t stand it any longer.

‘What did you want to talk to me about?’ His voice was so soft she nearly missed it over the crash of breakers outside on the rocks.

Tiffany twisted the strap of her bag in her fingers. Her fleeting, beer-fuelled burst of courage had gone. She couldn’t ask him now if he found her attractive, couldn’t ask him if he was still interested in going out to dinner with her tomorrow night, couldn’t tell him how she felt about him. Couldn’t. He thought she was drunk.
A drunk
.

‘Nothing. It’s better if I give you the report when I’ve done a summation. Saturday.’

He hadn’t taken his eyes from hers as she spoke. He didn’t move from where he stood by the lamp in the corner of the room.

‘Don’t you want to know what was in the letters?’ he asked eventually.

‘If you want to tell me.’

‘You’ve already read one so you know.’ Miles strode across and flung himself into a squashy, dark red armchair. He stared out into the darkness. ‘They’re all much the same. She knew where he was my whole life. She sent him photos. He sent me birthday presents and I’m sure he must have sent her money.’ He turned towards her, bewildered. ‘Why did she do that? Why did she lie?’

Tiffany stood transfixed by the pain in the words. She strove feverishly for something useful to say. ‘I don’t know.’

‘I thought the gifts he sent were from other people, mainly from her.. Or she’d say my uncle sent whatever it was. And he had all that money! We struggled and she wouldn’t accept his money.’

‘Maybe...’ she began. Miles watched expectantly for the solution she didn’t have. ‘Maybe he hurt her in some way she couldn’t forgive.’

‘So she punished me?’ he cried. ‘That’s insane.’

‘Or he was impossible to live with. He certainly lived a strange life.’

‘Unless she drove him to it,’ he said in a vicious tone Tiffany gasped. He looked up at her with a cynical smile. ‘You think that’s cruel? What about what she did to me and my father?’

Tiffany had no reply. She agreed. It was monstrous, but however bizarre it was, Nancy must have had her reasons.

‘Did she have strong views on things?’ she asked, casting about wildly for something sensible and sober sounding to say. ‘Religious, for example? Political?’

Miles nodded. ‘She had very strong socialist tendencies, green, pro the environment. She was a hippy in her youth.’

‘So that could have been why. She detested his capitalist money making ventures and didn’t want you tainted.’

‘But he wasn’t wealthy when they met. That would have been a pretty extreme reaction.’

Tiffany pulled out a dining chair and sat down, defeated.

‘I don’t know,’ she said.

‘Neither do I.’ The words fell heavy with sorrow.

The surf pounded on the rocks below the house. A branch scraped on the roof as the wind picked up in strength. Miles stared out into the night.

Tiffany stood up. ‘I should go,’ she murmured.

‘Don’t,’ said Miles without looking at her.

Tiffany sat down again. He didn’t move from his chair.

‘I was teasing,’ he said very softly. ‘When I accused you of being drunk, I was teasing. I’m sorry.’

Tiffany swallowed. Her fingers curled and uncurled in her lap. She shifted her bag on her shoulder.

‘I don’t usually drink much. Marianne likes to go out clubbing and to bars but I don’t, much. I go with her because...’ Why
did
she go? He waited. ‘She’s my best friend,’ she finished after a slight pause.

He snorted in a way that might have signified amusement if his face hadn’t so clearly displayed such deep hurt.

‘I don’t have a best friend,’ he said. ‘Not here. My best mates are in Brisbane.’

‘I don’t think I’d like to be so isolated. I’ve got plenty of other friends. Marianne is the one I’ve known longest and kept in touch with. We met as teenagers.’

‘It’s easy to keep in touch. When you live in a place like this it’s amazing how many old friends turn up to visit.’

‘I suppose so.’

He didn’t reply.

The conversation fizzled. She shifted her bag on to her lap, prepared to stand up and take herself home, although sitting here quietly with Miles was infinitely preferable to lying in bed alone and sleepless. But as usual she was next to useless at offering any sort of meaningful support or comfort. He was undoubtedly wishing he hadn’t asked her to stay.

‘When my uncle died in a car accident I thought my mum was my only relative.’ His voice startled her. ‘She didn’t even tell me when she knew she was dying. And she knew he was still alive.’

Tiffany sat motionless. Miles leaned forward and put his hands over his face. Was he crying? She stared at his hunched shoulders and fingers splayed pale in the dark of his hair. She rose and tentatively stepped closer to his chair.

‘Miles,’ she murmured staring down at the bowed head.

He raised his face and reached out a hand to clasp one of hers. He pulled her closer. Then he sat up straighter, wrapped both arms around her waist and buried his face against her stomach. He sighed a deep and uneven rush of air and she stood with her hands around his head, stroking his hair gently as all sorts of totally non-maternal feelings flooded her body.

After a time he drew away and rubbed his hands over his face. He laughed — a self-conscious, small, grating sound with no humour in it at all.

‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘How embarrassing for you. Very unprofessional.’

Tiffany’s heart sagged with dismay.

‘You don’t need to apologise,’ she mumbled and turned away with her lip trembling so much she could barely speak. She certainly couldn’t face him.

‘I’m sure you don’t want your clients bothering you with their personal disasters. Counselling isn’t part of your job.’

‘No,’ Tiffany said with her back still turned. ‘And it’s just as well because I’m hopeless at that sort of thing.’

She snatched her bag from the floor where she’d dropped it and blundered to the front door in the dark. The lock was stiff under her fingers and she struggled with it for a moment before it sprang open. The door swung wide letting in a cool rush of wind.

‘I’ll see you in the morning,’ she called in a last desperate stab at coherency and control. The door closed with a crash.

Marianne’s room was in darkness when Tiffany arrived at the motel panting, hot, shaking, teary and inside-out with humiliation at her total and utter failure to comfort Miles. She knew what he thought of her — reserved, aloof, professional, completely insensitive to personal affairs.